After the Funeral - Agatha Christie [55]
Poirot took a deep, hissing breath.
“Ingenious—yes, ingenious… I warned Mr. Entwhistle to look after Miss Gilchrist. An attack on her was always a possibility. But I must confess that I did not expect poison. I anticipated a repetition of the hatchet motif. I merely thought that it would be inadvisable for her to walk alone in unfrequented lanes after dark.”
“But why did you anticipate an attack on her? I think, M. Poirot, you ought to tell me that.”
Poirot nodded his head slowly.
“Yes, I will tell you. Mr. Entwhistle will not tell you, because he is a lawyer and lawyers do not like to speak of suppositions, or inferences made from the character of a dead woman, or from a few irresponsible words. But he will not be averse to my telling you—no, he will be relieved. He does not wish to appear foolish or fanciful, but he wants you to know what may—only may—be the facts.”
Poirot paused as Georges entered with a tall glass of beer.
“Some refreshment, Inspector. No, no, I insist.”
“Won’t you join me?”
“I do not drink the beer. But I will myself have a glass of sirop de cassis—the English they do not care for it, I have noticed.”
Inspector Morton looked gratefully at his beer.
Poirot, sipping delicately from his glass of dark purple fluid, said:
“It begins, all this, at a funeral. Or rather, to be exact, after the funeral.”
Graphically, with many gestures, he set forth the story as Mr. Entwhistle had told it to him, but with such embellishments as his exuberant nature suggested. One almost felt that Hercule Poirot himself had been an eyewitness of the scene.
Inspector Morton had an excellent clear-cut brain. He seized at once on what were, for his purposes, the salient points.
“This Mr. Abernethie may have been poisoned?”
“It is a possibility.”
“And the body has been cremated and there is no evidence?”
“Exactly.”
Inspector Morton ruminated.
“Interesting. There’s nothing in it for us. Nothing, that is, to make Richard Abernethie’s death worth investigating. It would be a waste of time.”
“Yes.”
“But there are the people—the people who were there—the people who heard Cora Lansquenet say what she did, and one of whom may have thought that she might say it again and with more detail.”
“As she undoubtedly would have. There are, Inspector, as you say, the people. And now you see why I was at the inquest, why I interested myself in the case—because it is, always, people in whom I interest myself.”
“Then the attack on Miss Gilchrist—”
“Was always indicated. Richard Abernethie had been down to the cottage. He had talked to Cora. He had, perhaps, actually mentioned a name. The only person who might possibly have known or overheard something was Miss Gilchrist. After Cora is silenced, the murderer might continue to be anxious. Does the other woman know something—anything? Of course, if the murderer is wise he will let well alone, but murderers, Inspector, are seldom wise. Fortunately for us. They brood, they feel uncertain, they desire to make sure—quite sure. They are pleased with their own cleverness. And so, in the end, they protrude their necks, as you say.”
Inspector Morton smiled faintly.
Poirot went on:
“This attempt to silence Miss Gilchrist, already it is a mistake. For now there are two occasions about which you make inquiry. There is the handwriting on the wedding label also. It is a pity the wrapping paper was burnt.”
“Yes, I could have been certain, then, whether it came by post or whether it didn’t.”
“You have reason for thinking the latter, you say?”
“It’s only what the postman thinks—he’s not sure. If the parcel had gone through a village post office, it’s ten to one the postmistress would have noticed it, but nowadays the mail is delivered by van from Market Keynes and of course the young chap does quite a round and delivers a lot of things. He thinks it was letters only and no parcel at the cottage—but he isn’t sure. As a matter of fact he’s having a bit of girl trouble and he can’t think about anything else. I’ve tested his memory and he isn’t reliable in any way. If he did deliver